Boys and their violence

Boys with their wooden swords and rounded bellies 

With mud streaked across their cheeks 

With the turbulence they conceive 

Their wrestling and writhing 

As their mothers scrub the blood and sweat and grass of their clothes, they walk into the forest with wooden crowns and raised chins 

Boys determined to incept turmoil 

Even in birth, the sweat wiped from their mothers brow as they bear down, they pound against their mothers womb demanding their retribution for being locked away

They hear their brothers fight, and kick, and the fun of their chaos and demand inclusion 

Boys and their violence

Their desire to enact chaos, to revolt against The mother’s soft promotion of life, Her kind embrace of those that walk Her paths, that marvel at Her ability to create, that submit to Her doing 

Boys reject this softness 

Since birth, they revolt kicking and screaming against the envelopment of life 

Once their tiny little bodies roll over and their knees begin to grow, they crawl towards chaos, 

They roll their tiny fists and push and shove and wrestle their brothers 

And they wrestle and wrestle and wrestle 

They break glass, they break wood, they knock over mother’s china, and father’s whiskey, 

They grow louder and louder and louder 

Until they are extricated outside where they land into the soft ground and begin beating the ground 

Boys and their violence 

Such a rowdy thing, such a marvelous things 

And when their fists slow, and their grumbles and mumbles slow, they laugh and laugh and laugh 

They drape their arms over their comrades and walk up the hill for supper,

With their bruises and scratches they come home as dusk sets, leaving their shoes, their mud, their twigs and leaves in the hall

Their war paused until the sun rises back over the hills